check in before a confrontation

check in before a confrontation

Another long weekend of laziness. I could excuse Thursday and maybe
even Friday, but the fact that I couldn't get started yesterday is
beyond the pale. Beyond the pail, the bucket which I kick at the
moment of death. Yesterday, I finally got so fed up with myself that I
cleaned the kitchen—just to escape the trap, just to remember that
doing things feels better than not doing things.

I went to bed early, and slept a lot, and masturbated about being
transformed into a doppelgänger of Melissa McCarthy and ejaculated
into an N95 facemask. Now it's Sunday morning, I'm at my desktop,
conditional optimal, and it should be clear to everyone that if I
can't make progress on this memoir now (the memoir in the worktree,
not these procrastinatory pseudo-Diary commit messages), then I'll
never, ever finish.

Just—look at the document—even spend an entire block just looking at
the emails, which I've been afraid to look at, even though this is all
years in the past and I was somehow brave enough to write them at the
time—and think, honestly. Document why, after all these years, I still
have a right to be angry. (My life for ire!)

Say I can reward myself with a croissant (if I do well in the next
hour) or beef fried rice (if I do good all day). I told Mom I'd call
her in the evening.